Page 34 of Reverence

His voice was hollow, scratchy, his face a bit wan. He was so rarely sick, such an image of youth and vigor, that seeing him under the weather was unusual, and Juliette worried instantly.

“Dance, Gabriel. We will danceSwan Lakeand we will dance it well. That’s all there is to it. And after what just happened, what do we all have to lose?”Francesca spoke but didn’t raise her eyes to meet any of theirs, instead watching the city below. Juliette had a sinking suspicion she was saying goodbye to Paris. To a city she had given over twenty years, arriving as an Argentinian political refugee after another coup spurred an exodus of intellectuals and activists.

Juliette knew history, loved it in school, and applied herself much better than the rest of the little ballerinas who were all too obsessed with dancing to bother with any other lessons. But even Juliette could not keep track of the Argentinian revolts. Francesca rarely spoke of her childhood. She had a brother somewhere. New York? Los Angeles? He was much younger, and they had been separated by their exile. Gonzalo? Gustavo? Something like that. Francesca spoke even more rarely of him.

Juliette’s train of thought was interrupted by an irate voice from the shadows of the office.

“Madame Bianchi, you are too young to speak this way.” Juliette smiled at the admonition clearly audible in Monsieur Lenoir’s words. “I’m seventy, and I still have quite a lot to lose. This is Palais Garnier, for goodness’ sake. You don’t throw in the towel. You don’t leave. They fire you, they murder you, or itall burns down. Those are the only options available. I, for one, refuse all three.”

The old conductor stood up so forcefully that his chair overturned, but he made no move to pick it up. Instead, heshuffled out of the office and slammed the door. Francesca smiled.

“I love the French. They are so bloodthirsty. Everything is guillotine, fire, and bloodshed. Talk about drama. Lalande is the same.”

Gabriel coughed in his handkerchief and continued to pace as he spoke.

“Lalande is serious, and you know it.”

Francesca just waved him away.

“He is a bureaucrat. It’s what they do. Threaten dismissals and then applaud and take all the credit during the opening night. We have an ace up our sleeve.”

As Gabriel gave her an uncomprehending look, she simply pointed at Juliette and winked.

“Make it two aces. My swans will bring down the house.”

The day dragged on.Juliette took class, trying to focus on her own steps rather than on the whispers that surrounded her, no matter how loud they were getting. And they were loud. Michel and Monique, the second prima, did not hide their glee. WithDon Quixotescrapped faster than the morning newspapers were replaced with the afternoon ones,Sleeping Beautywas immediately put on the program for spring, Francesca and one of her choreographer friends working on the small changes to make it feel at least a tiny bit fresh to the public. Michel and Monique had danced the leads last year—since it was the lesserproduction and not the marquis ballet of the season—so it was no surprise that when Juliette approached the call sheet, their names were at the top.

Juliette told herself she wasn’t bothered. Paris Opera Ballet staged multiple ballets every year, the program was extensive, and a single prima could never dance it all. Sure, as the absolute lead, Juliette performed the most, which amounted to four or five main parts in one season, but the rest had to be danced by someone too. Juliette may have been the resident Étoile, but Monique was good, and Michel, while nowhere near Gabriel’s skill, wasn’t awful.

As she sat on the floor under the barre, getting ready for the run-through forSwan Lake, one of the last before the dress rehearsals, Juliette tried not to dwell on her resentment over the entire situation.

She pulled on the ribbon as she wrapped it around her ankle and couldn’t help overhearing two soloists to her left, giggling.

“Do you think they will elevate one of us?”

Juliette’s fingers fumbled the knot and bit her lip to stave off any possible reaction.

“Monique will gobble up all the parts, she’s greedy that way. And Garnier has not had a French Prima Assoluta ever, since there are so few of them and they need some sort of presidential or governmental decree. I think they will give it to her, or at least elevate her to Étoile.”

The brunette bent over to stretch her hamstrings and the ending of her reply was unintelligible. The follow-up question from the giggly blonde, however, was anything but.

“You don’t think Vyatka will get it?”

“She might, but how many years does she have in her? Three? Four? She’s a hag!”

Angry ringing filled Juliette’s ears, and the room felt impossibly loud, as if Paris itself had stepped into it, with allits industry and traffic. She didn’t know if it was due to the suggestion that Katarina would replace her or that Katarina, who was in her dancing prime, so to speak, was called a hag. She suspected, pathetic as it might be, it was the latter that upset her more and truly set her off.

Her vision glowing red at the corners, Juliette shook her head and got up, looking directly at the two ballerinas, who had the decency to look sheepish. She knew she should say something. It was a matter of principle. And a matter of principal. Turf wars were common, and the heads of the pack had to defend theirs quite often. It would not do to allow such disrespect, especially now that they understood she heard them. Except no words came to her, the cacophony still drowning cogent thought?—

“Do you know what old hags do to little children, girls?”

Katarina, in a black leotard and tutu, stepped around Juliette and laid a hand on her shoulder. The long fingers glided up from where the skin was covered by the hastily thrown-on sweater, to the back of her neck, and then just rested there, unexpectedly warm and comforting. Though that last qualification was a lie. There was nothing comforting about the hairs at her nape standing up, the tingling sensations running down her spine, and the sudden evaporation of all air from the room.

Katarina was clearly unaware of her effect, as her fingers squeezed gently once, twice, before falling off, and her face morphed from placid to haughty.

“I may be a newcomer here, girls.” She spoke the last word as if grounding it into dirt. Juliette shivered. “But no matter the ballet company, I know this. You have to have had your first true lead before you become scavengers on the hunt for the cadaver of a seasoned prima.” Katarina was absolutely still, shoulder to shoulder with Juliette, but for all intents and purposes, she might as well have stood in front of her. Her eyes were chipsof ice, impenetrable, the full mouth drawn into a straight line, nothing left of the earlier pathos and sarcasm. The soloists were now visibly trembling. Juliette wanted to fan herself.

Then, after her silence scared them both good and proper, the fake smile returned, the right corner of the mouth Juliette kept admiring lifting with nothing but arrogance.

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